I had an audition last week, and I’ll admit, it was for something that I really wanted. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t get it.) It wasn’t just the rejection, though, that got me. It was the all-day process of finding out that I didn’t get called back.
At the end of the audition, they told us that they would only contact those moving to the next round, either through call or email. Needless to say, on Monday night, I fell asleep as if my body was an extension cord: phone plugged into wall, hand death-gripped to phone.
I even had a cruel dream that must have happened when I felt a vibration in my palm. All day, I kept checking my screen, refreshing my inbox, and cursing whenever spam made me feel that split-second of hope. Special shoutout to Xcel Energy for calling me from an unsaved 612 number.
I never thought that I’d say it, but the whole process made me miss those mornings in high school when the cast list was posted. Even though there were tears and cheers before first hour, at least you knew if your name was on that piece of paper. In this case, I heard from a couple friends that they received calls while I was at work, knowing that with every second that passed, the likelihood of being cast became less and less.
For a while, I told myself that I must have written down my number illegibly and that I would get an email in the morning. But then I realized I was negotiating with myself in a way that I only do when I’m being broken up with.
I wasn’t sad because I didn’t make it; I was sad because I saw my future in that show. Not getting a call didn’t make me feel untalented; I knew it was because it just wasn’t a good fit for either of us. Worse yet, I knew that they would cast someone perfect for them, and all I could do, would be go to a show in a few months and applaud, to be proud of their integrity towards their image of the theater. I would tell myself then, in the darkness of the audience that they made the right choice.
Needless to say, I went to the bar that night and cried with my coworkers. And then went home to my boyfriend, where I made him go out with me to another bar so I could cry some more.
The next morning, I woke up to a vicious hangover and a pay-stub email. But, per usual, nothing hurt as much as the daily news notification, about how the world was specifically burning today.
It was a reminder to get up and put on my shoes. There was work to do.
The Crossfit Open started last week, too. And I told myself that this was going to be my redemption workout. It involved two of my favorite movements: dumbbell snatch and box step-ups. Please note, I did not say box jumps, because I will be riding this Scaled train for the next five weeks, believe you me.
I slept in the morning that my team all did 17.1, so I came to an afternoon class. My three #hunkpatrol teammates all finished the workout before the time-cap, and I was sure that I would not only meet their standard, but maybe even end as the leader.
(For anyone that knows me, this goes without saying, but I am low-key the most competitive person ever, which I definitely get from my family. The Christmas Trivial Pursuit game was postponed indefinitely after the 1998 Pie Question debate, when it was conceded that “Jackie Onassis” was not a correct response, when the answer on the card was “Jackie Kennedy”.)
Anyway, back in the gym, the 3:30 class was a tight-knit group of four.
A quick aside for anyone that has never done an Open workout: they are amazing and tough and push you to the absolute limit. Also, you do not count your own reps; every person needs to be “judged” by someone. Meaning, we split into two groups of two, taking turns doing this vicious workout.
I went in the second group, so I was being judged by someone that had just finished doing intense cardio for 20 minutes. It only took a few rounds, though, before I could tell something was off. It felt like I was doing a lot of step-ups. I mean, it is supposed to be hard, but this felt like my first round of 15 went way too long.
So, during the second round, I counted for myself, and when I reached 15, I stepped off the box and started dumbbell snatches again. My judge told me, Stop. You have seven more to do.
She had been counting each two as if it was one rep. My chest sank, I felt defeated. This was supposed to be my moment. As the clock ticked closer and closer to twenty, I could tell with each moment, it was going to be less likely I would finish before the time-cap.
I only had ten more burpee box step-ups when the buzzer rang. I had lost. After being disappointed by external forces this week, I convinced myself that I wouldn’t come short with something like this, something within my control.
To be clear, I had no resentment directed towards my judge. When you are done with an Open workout, you can barely even count your fingers without feeling like you’re going to pass out. I was angry that I was, yet again, not able to overcome the obstacles put in front of me, as a means of achieving objective greatness.
Fuming, I waited for the bus, physically producing steam, from the combination of sweat and emotion. Still angry, I paid my fare and clocked into work.
I woke up the next morning, ridiculously sore but still angry. There’s still so much more work to do.
And 17.2, I’m coming for you, alongside my #hunkpatrol. Cue the air horns.